


Of Cupids and Beginnings

by vaughnicus



Series: Liber-Tea [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, It'll make sense, M/M, Mostly Fluff, bit of angst, can be standalone, series beginning, they're tea brewers!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaughnicus/pseuds/vaughnicus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An engagement announcement sets (un)expected things into motion. </p><p>Or, the One Where Courfeyrac Thinks He Controls Everything (and Operation Oblivious Idiots Begins).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Cupids and Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, darlings. Thanks for stopping by. This starts the series wherein our boys are tea blenders/brewers (it'll make sense, promise). I plan on making each installment a standalone but connected oneshot. Most will be centered around E/R.
> 
> Enjoy!

           

* * *

 

 

 Enjolras walked into the spacious loft their group had rented for brewing purposes at his chronically brisk pace. Clashing waves of lavender, cinnamon, bergamot, and… vitamins swept over him and he coughed as he shut the door. From his small worktable to the right, Jehan looked up and grinned.

            “Enjolras! Hullo. Sorry about the – erm – conflicting scents. For some reason Joly and I thought it’d be acceptable to blend a medicinal herb mix and a new chai mix at the same time.”

            “It’s no problem,” he assured. “Though I don’t see why you haven’t opened a window.”

            He strode to the back of the room and was reaching to do just that when a hand closed over his wrist. He finally registered Joly calling ‘wait!’ in the background, but it wasn’t him who had stopped his motion. Enjolras’ gaze swept up from the hand to find Grantaire grinning apologetically.

            “I made the same mistake earlier.”

            Quizzically, Enjolras looked back at Joly, who was nodding.

            “It’s too windy. Our leaves will go everywhere.”

            “Right. My bad.”

            He made to straighten his jacket but found Grantaire’s hand still impeding him. He coughed pointedly. Grantaire jumped, looking first to him and then down to their hands.

            “Oh!” He snatched his limb away, stumbling back a few steps. “Sorry. Preoccupied.” He stepped behind his easel, picking up a paintbrush.

            Enjolras nodded. “Of course. What are you working on?” He moved towards Grantaire, but the artist angled his canvas away.

            “It’s no use. He’s been secretive all day,” called Jehan, who was watching the proceeding with unabashed amusement.

            “Secretive? Why?”

            “My work is not yet fit for Apollo’s discerning gaze.”

            Enjolras blinked. “I think you’ve been around Jehan too long.” They both ignored the affronted ‘hey!’ from the poet’s station. “You’ve always displayed your working projects before.”  

            “Well. This is different.”

            Lifting a skeptical brow but acquiescing, Enjolras backed away. “All right. As long as it’s for the organization and not a cover for you to paint naked women during work.”

            Grantaire laughed, sounding surprised. “Why Apollo, has your marble cracked enough to allow humor through? I appreciate it, incorrect though it may be.”

            “Incorrect?” Enjolras slowed his path towards his station, turning back to Grantaire who nodded without looking up from his painting.

            “You think so little of me. I would not just paint naked women.”

            “Oh. Right. I-“ Enjolras shifted, vague prickles of discomfort climbing his torso. “Of course you wouldn-“

            “I’d paint naked men, too.”

            Joly and Jehan burst into laughter as Enjolras’ jaw dropped. He snapped it quickly shut.

            “You do understand the term ‘bisexual?’” Grantaire needled.

            “O-of course.” Enjolras felt his cheeks flame. “Seeing as how I-“

            “My people!” Courfeyrac burst in through the door with unusual splendor, toting a clipboard under his arm and Bahorel and Combeferre behind him. He strode up to Enjolras’ desk and bowed low, extending the board. “Your majesty. New orders.”

            “Thank you.” He smiled a little dazedly as Courf straightened up. “You’re rather jovial today.”

            “Ah!” He planted himself atop his table. “That is because I have official proof of my unbeatable matchmaking skills.”

            He plunged into his work, threading tags into the tea bags Joly and Jehan delivered to him and slipping them into their recycled, handmade, and artfully decorated covers. Jehan beamed at him, fingers twitching in his leaves as though itching for a pen to capture the scene with.

            “Who was it, then? What proof do you have?”

            Courfeyrac settled into his perch, smirking. “Our dear delivery boy Marius has just proposed to Cosette in the Square.”

            There was a burst of commotion at his pronouncement. Combeferre quieted the gleeful noises by standing.

            “But how is this proof of your ‘matchmaking skills?’”

            “Well everyone knows I got them together!” He spoke over the outbreak of laughter at that. “I did! I introduced them and set up their first date and everything!” He looked beseechingly to Jehan. “I told you about it!”

            Everyone turned to Jehan, who nodded. “I do remember that, actually.”

            They grew rowdy again at that, crowding around Courfeyrac.

            It was Joly, still at his table, who noticed Grantaire slinking towards the door.

            “Grantaire!” he called, quieting the proceedings. “Where are you going?”

            The artist held up his phone. “Someone to call.” And he was out the door before any more questions could be asked.

            “That was odd,” Bahorel commented after a moment of silence.

            All gathered nodded but Enjolras. “Not really,” he said, leaning against the wall and staring absently towards the door. “He’s gone to call Eponine.”

            Combeferre blinked. “Eponine? Our Eponine?”

            “Yes.” Enjolras looked at them and sighed at their blank stares. “They’re very good friends and she’s probably just learned her unrequited love proposed to someone else. Wouldn’t you call?”

            The room was momentarily silent. Finally, Jehan stammered, “u-unrequited… love?”

            Enjolras cocked his head at them, frowning. “You didn’t know?”

            “No!” The shout came from multiple sources. “How on earth did _you_? It certainly wasn’t through just seeing, because no offense, but you’re not exactly the most socially skilled observer here.”

            Enjolras took no offense at the very true statement, pushing off the wall and heading back to his desk. “Grantaire told me.”

            “When?” Combeferre piped up, because it was rare that their group wasn’t all together, so why would Grantaire and Enjolras be alone unless it was… intentional?

            Unbeknownst to Enjolras, the rest of them held their breath. Except for Courfeyrac, who had found an old Dr. Pepper and was sucking it down, though he was certainly still waiting eagerly.

            “Awhile ago,” Enjolras answered. “We both have a tendency to work late.”

            Courfeyrac almost choked, spraying the nearest three people with carbonated sugar. Jehan was quick to helpfully pound his back while the rest of them both laughed and wiped soda off their clothing.

            “Grantaire?” Courf finally rasped once he’d recovered. “Has a tendency to _work late_?”

            Enjolras fiddled with his pen, as if just realizing this behavior was uncharacteristic for their resident artist. “Well, yes. The majority of nights I’m working late, he seems to stay here as well.”

            At Courfeyrac’s side, Jehan let out a sound that could be called a whimper. Enjolras gave him a concerned look.                    

            “Are you all right, Jehan?”

            “Are _you?!_ ”

            “I – what?”

            Before any incriminating words could be thrown from the writer, Grantaire re-entered the room, and all heads turned to him. He froze at the entry.

            “Um.” He grinned. “I know I tend to command attention, but that was a little unsettling.”

            His words broke the subtle charge in the air.

            “Apologies,” Courfeyrac said, inclining his head. “You startled us. We just selected my next matchmaking targets!”

            Enjolras looked up, utterly confused. “You did?”

            Courfeyrac laughed, sharing a knowing smile with the workers around him. “Oh yes. And I’ll tell you, this will really be a test of my talent. Most oblivious, stubborn pair I’ve ever seen.”

            Grantaire came further into the room, pocketing his phone. “Well, who is it?”

            Courfeyrac only smiled slyly. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.

 

* * *

 

 

            Courfeyrac was approaching their work loft with Jehan the very next afternoon, along with another… addition.

            “Operation Oblivious Idiots is a go.”

            Jehan laughed delightedly. “That’s a bit harsh.”

            “You’ve seen them! That’s the kindest title I could think of!”

            “Maybe next time you should let me help, then.”

            Courf ticked an eyebrow at him. “Yes. Maybe I will.” He turned to their companion. “Just through here, darling. You know what to do?”

            “Of course,” was the smooth reply. “He’s the blonde one?”

            “Yeah, the gloomy, gorgeous, fearless leader. I’ll introduce you.”

            He opened the door and let Jehan go first, followed by their guest – a tall, curvy, well-endowed woman with long, shiny dark hair. He stepped in after her and shut the door.

            “Everyone! This is Caterina, my cousin. She wanted to see what I do so I thought I’d bring her up.”

            There was a smattering of ‘hello’s and more than a few suspicious looks. Courfeyrac took Caterina by the arm and led her over to Enjolras’ work space.     

            “Cat, this is Enjolras, our genius creator.”

            She smiled a little too warmly at him and leaned over farther than necessary to shake his hand.

            “Enjolras. What a _gorgeous_ name.”

            “Thank you.” His voice was nothing but formal. “I’m glad to see you’ve taken such an interest in the organization. Don’t be hesitant to ask any questions you might have.”

            He looked back to his work, apparently assuming Courfeyrac was going to take care of her. But she didn’t budge, and Courf was back at his table.

            “Oh, I have questions,” Cat purred. “So many questions.” She hitched up her hip and half-sat on Enjolras’ desk.

            He shuffled his paper  away from her. “About the company? We don’t make much yet but all of our profits go to various charities and rights groups. I can get you a list…”

            He started to stand but she grabbed his coat. “Actually, those questions… I really meant I wanted to ask more about _you_.”

            “O-oh. Yes. Well, I founded the company two years ago, out of a desire to-“

            “Are you single?” As she asked the question, Caterina moved lithely around Enjolras’ desk, stopping right beside him and sitting again. Her shirt, already low cut, had slipped down during her move and she didn’t bother to fix it.

            “What?”

            “Are you single?”          

            Enjolras swallowed, scooting his chair back. “I really don’t think that’s-“

            “It’s a simple question.” She slid off his desk and stood over him, planting both hands on the back of his chair. “But I can rephrase it if you like. Let me put it this way: you’re attractive. I’m attractive. We both seem pretty smart. And I would very much like to go to lunch with you.”

            Enjolras lifted his eyes heavenward, blowing out a sigh. “Caterina, that’s a lovely offer, but-“

            “But what?” She folded her arms beneath her bosom, pouting. “If you’re available, there shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

            “Well, no. And I technically am, but-“

            “You aren’t attracted to me?”

            “It’s not like that. I hardly know you-“

            “Which is why we should go out! So I can _get_ to know you!”

            “Cater _ina,_ you don’t under _stand,”_ Enjolras insisted, finally displaying a hint of aggravation. “I’m gay.”

            Immediately, she pulled away, but any other reaction was swallowed by a great crash from the corner. Everyone started and swiveled towards the sound’s source, Jehan yelling in alarm at seeing Grantaire sprawled on the floor. A crate of art supplies was upended in front of him, tubes of oils and brushes scattered everywhere.

            “Grantaire!”

            Being the closest, Enjolras was the one to first respond, jumping from his chair and coming to his friend’s aid. He offered a hand up but Grantaire didn’t see it, already scrambling for his spilled things. Enjolras joined him, dropping to his knees and reaching for a runaway palette.

            “Are you all right?”       

            “Fine! I’m fine.”

            “What happened?”

            “Just – I just tripped.”

            Enjolras searched the nearby area for whatever had caused the artist to fall, intent on removing it, but he could find nothing.

            “On what?”

            “Huh?”

            “What did you trip on?”

            “I-“ Grantaire couldn’t seem to get an answer out.

            Increasingly concerned, Enjolras reached over to stabilize the man, but his gesture seemed to have the opposite effect. Grantaire jumped and then pulled away from his touch, everything but his bright red cheeks paling.

            “Grantaire, are you ill?”

            “No.” He stood. “Yes! I – I need…”

            He looked down at Enjolras and any other planned words died on his lips. Within the next heartbeat he’d fled from the room. Enjolras stared after him, stunned. Gathering his wits, he stood, depositing the last of the art supplies into their box on the way.

            “What the hell just happened?”

            Courfeyrac was the first to recover from their collective shock. He stood.

            “I – I don’t think he feels well. I’ll go check on him.”

            “I’ll go with you.”

            “No!” Courfeyrac pulled back the hand he’d reactively thrown toward Enjolras. “I mean. If he’s… unwell, it’s best not to outnumber him.” A last tight smile and Courf was out the door.

            Bahorel approached Enjolras carefully. “Sit back down, Enj. I’m sure it’s nothing. They’ll be back soon.”

            But Enjolras didn’t move. “It was so sudden, though.” An unpleasant idea seemed to occur to him the and he turned his fierce gaze on Bahorel. “Did I do something?”     

            The first response he got to that was a pained look.

            “Of course not.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Courfeyrac caught up with Grantaire down the hall near the stairwell. The painter had stopped to brace himself against the wall, arms above his bowed head and shoulders visibly tense beneath his thin shirt. Courf walked up to him slowly.

            “Grantaire?”

            He did not reply and Courfeyrac took up a position that was close but not touching.

            “Grantaire. Are you okay?”

            After a moment, Grantaire spoke up quietly, still unmoving. “To be given false hope where there should be none is perhaps more painful than having none at all.” He was even more meek when he said, “he’s gay, Courf.”

            “Yes, and considering your personal status, I fail to see how that is at all a problem. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”   

            Instead of answering, Grantaire turned on him. “Did you know?”

            “Everyone knows, ‘Taire.”

            “And no one thought it would be prudent to tell me?!”

            “We thought you knew,” Courfeyrac confessed. “Given how you… pine.”

            Grantaire finally pulled away from the wall, indignant. “I do not _pine_.”

            Courf just lifted an eyebrow. “ ’ _O God of the sun, that you might deem this mortal worthy to bestow your light upon’_ …?”

            Grantaire glared, flushing. “I was drunk.”

            “You’re perpetually drunk.”

            “Ha. Not today,” Grantaire grumbled, sliding down the wall. “Of all the times for me to forego my vice…”

            Courfeyrac thought back on the day, realizing he in fact had not seen Grantaire have so much as a drop of anything . He had been oddly quiet through the admittedly short time Courf had been in. He joined Grantaire on the floor.

            “It’s true. I’ve seen you with nothing at all today. And…” He cast his thoughts further back. “You haven’t been out with us at all this past week. We assumed you were feeling unwell…”

            “You weren’t wrong.”

            “But it was for a good cause, if you are truly trying to quit-!”

            Grantaire winced. “I’d say ‘cut back.’”

            “But why haven’t you told us?”

            “This is why,” he said, gesturing between them. “I don’t want to make a scene; to get all of your hopes up only to dash them if I fail.”

            “And that,” Courfeyrac returned, “is exactly why you _should_ have told us. So we’d be there for you. We all know it’s hard so there might be drawbacks and what the hell are friends for if not to support you?”

            Grantaire sighed, running trembling hands through his hair. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

            Courfeyrac couldn’t help his rueful smile. _Ding ding ding - there it is! The answer you’ve been waiting for!_

“Do you remember when Bahorel fell down the stairs a couple of weeks ago and almost broke his wrist?”

            Confused by the apparent non sequitor, Grantaire threw Courfeyrac an odd look but nodded.

            “I was behind Enjolras in the stairwell and Bahorel was behind me. When he fell, I ran down to check on him but Enjolras stayed where he was. Concerned, yes, absolutely, but leaving it to me and Joly to handle. He stayed to verbally affirm that Bahorel was all right, and then told us we could take him home and continued to the loft.”

            “Yeah, okay.” Grantaire nodded. “We all know Enjolras cares but is a socially inept alien. Your point?”

            “Today, when you tripped, Enjolras was the first one by your side. And then after you ran out, he wanted to come with me to make sure you were okay.” Courfeyrac rose to his feet and turned to face Grantaire. “Bahorel falls down half a flight of stairs and he asks if he’s all right then leaves. You _trip_ and he doesn’t want to leave your side. So stow all this ‘false hope’ stuff, because it’s bullshit.”

            He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, not once looking back.

           

* * *

 

 

            Grantaire never came back into work that day. Or the next one. It was the third day he was missing, the Friday before Marius and Cosette’s engagement party, that Enjolras stood up from his desk and strode over to Courfeyrac.

            “Where’s Grantaire?”

            The worker barely spared him a glance. “I don’t know.”

            “You were the last one to talk to him.”

            Courfeyrac set down his packaging materials. “Yes, and that’s all we did. Talk. I left before him.”

            Enjolras made a frustrated sound. “He hasn’t called in sick. He should be here.”

            “Have you tried calling him?”

            “No! It’s his responsibility.”

            Joly looked up from his station, setting down the teaspoon he’d been using. “Should we be worried? Even Grantaire usually calls.”

            Enjolras began to pace the short length of Courfeyrac’s desk. The man sitting there looked up at him, unimpressed.

            “Enjolras. Call him.”

            The blonde stopped moving, licked his lips, and pulled out his cell. He dialed (from memory, Courf noted) and switched the phone to speaker.

            Grantaire picked up on the fourth ring.

            “Hello?” He sounded a little confused, as if he hadn’t recognized the number.

            “Grantaire,” Enjolras greeted coolly.

            “Enjolras! Shit! I haven’t called, I know, I just – I haven’t-“

            “Grantaire,” Enjolras repeated, this time much more gently. “Are you okay?”

            There was a brief silence. Grantaire’s surprise could be felt through the phone lines.

            “I… I…”

            Enjolras shut his eyes, clenching a fist by his side. “What’s going on?”

            “I just…”

            “He’s stopped drinking!” Courfeyrac’s shout from his desk caused every gaze to whip his way, while an angered shout issued forth from the phone.

            “Courfeyrac!”

            “Is that true?” Enjolras was staring at the cell as though it were Grantaire himself, intense and tightly-strung. “Have you?”

            “I… yes?”

            “ _When?_ ”

            “’Bout a week ago.” Grantaire’s voice faded away and they could hear weak coughing.

            Enjolras tapped his screen and brought the phone up to his ear. “Are you at home?” They could no longer hear Grantaire’s reply, but it made Enjolras’ chiseled features drop into determination. “Stay there.”

            He hung up the phone and turned to his desk, piling his paperwork and shoving it into his shoulder bag. Pulling it carelessly under one arm, he strode to the door.

            “I’m sorry for leaving you all so early tonight. I’ll see you at the engagement party tomorrow.”

            He left, the door swinging shut behind him. Courfeyrac sat back in his chair, a smug look making its way onto his face. Jehan snorted.   

            “ _That._ Was _not_ your fault. Nor was it success.”

            “What are you talking about? Of course it is. We all know where this is going to go.”

            “Oh, come now, Courf,” Jehan chided, fighting back a smile. “They’re both very respectable.”

            “Yes,” Combeferre cut in, “but Grantaire will need something to distract himself from his yearning for the drink, no?”

            Courfeyrac was all lewdness.  “And what is better to replace one addiction with than another?”

 

* * *

 

 

            Enjolras had been to Grantaire’s apartment multiple times after work with the rest of the boys, so he found his way easily enough. He arrived only ten minutes after he got off the phone and knocked firmly on the door, standing in the hall with a stiffened back.

            Grantaire took a little too long to open the door, so by the time he was stepping into the actual apartment, his formal look may have melted into something tinged with the smallest bit of concern.

            “Grantaire,” he greeted. “How are you feeling?” His feet shuffled on the plush carpet as he meandered into the general living area, glancing about.

            “Shitty,” Grantaire replied, brutally honest as always. He came to stand in front of his awkward friend, sighing. “Enjolras, why are you here?”

            “We were worried. You didn’t tell anyone about… about your efforts and you haven’t been in. And you sounded pretty ill on the phone, so…”

            “So why didn’t you send Joly?”

            “You know very well he would have ended up barricading you in here on claims of contagion.”

            “That’s true.” Grantaire shuffled past Enjolras to his kitchen. “Can I get you anything? I have… water. And, um, coffee.”

            “Sure. Water. Thank you.”

            Two glasses were quickly filled and one was handed off, prompting another ‘thanks.’ Grantaire laughed.

            “You are too polite, dear Apollo.”

            Enjolras grimaced. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

            “Too modest, as well.”

            “I’m not perfect, you know.”

            Grantaire grinned weakly, leaning into the back of his armchair. “And in your imperfections and your acceptance of them lies your beauty. None can touch you, O Man of Marble.”

            Enjolras rolled his eyes, a faint blush appearing high on his cheeks. He cleared his throat after a moment.

            “You really have been hanging around Jehan, haven’t you?” He fingered his glass, staring down into the clear liquid within. “So,” he started, seeming uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “You’ve given up the drink?”

            “Not completely. I…” Grantaire trailed off, glaring at the opposite wall. “You said once that I’d be of more worth were my mind unclouded by alcohol.”

            Enjolras remembered. He’d said the words in a fit of pique when a wine-wielding Grantaire had criticized their latest choice of charity to fund. But there was a fundamental flaw in Grantaire’s recollection that made Enjolras’ chest twinge.

            “I said that your _opinions_ would be more valuable, not that _you_ were worth less because of a bad habit.”

            Grantaire waved his hand dismissively. “Same thing.”

            “No, Grantaire, it’s not.” Enjolras set his water down and rose, walking over to the skeptic and crouching. His eyes were lit with that passion he’d seen a thousand times, but instead of being directed towards a raving crowd while delivering a rousing speech, they were focused solely on Grantaire. It was a mite unsettling, but mostly breathtaking. (Incidentally, Grantaire was also grateful that he was feeling to too worn out to get turned on, because that could’ve gotten awkward with Enjolras so close).

            “Is it so hard for you to see your own worth?”

            “What worth?”

            Grantaire’s voice had turned cool, and Enjolras’ brow furrowed. “What worth? My friend, do you not see what you’ve done for us? Before you started creating art for the organization, we hardly sold a thing. You’ve increased our profits, but more than that, you’ve increased our moral. You’ve turned our work loft into a studio. You’ve turned content workers into merry collaborators.

            “We’re glad you’ve turned your tenacity into breaking your vice, no doubt, but Grantaire, don’t think that we think less of you for it or aren’t willing to help you. We care about you.”

            Grantaire gaped at him, eyes strangely bright. He chuckled breathily. “You care about me, Apollo?”

            “So much that it terrifies me.”

            Enjolras pulled Grantaire’s water away and set it on the side table before surging up to press their lips together. Grantaire, taken completely aback, was temporarily frozen in shock. Enjolras took it as something else and pulled back.

            “Oh God I’m sorry I don’t know what – “ He halted suddenly as a single tear slipped down Grantaire’s cheek, eyes widening adorably (and there’s a word Grantaire never expected to associate with their fearless leader).

            He shifted back onto his knees, intending to get up, but Grantaire stopped him with a hand on his jaw. Enjolras looked to him, wary but waiting, and Grantaire leaned over to finally return the kiss on the lips of his very own demigod.

            Enjolras responded with unexpected enthusiasm, bringing both hands up to cradle Grantaire’s face and then slide into his hair. He gripped there and Grantaire surprised both of them with his brief, high moan.

            He snapped his eyes open (when had they closed?) and God, Enjolras was _right there,_ and this wasn’t a dream, and the unruffle-able leader’s pupils were blown wide as he licked his bright red lips. Grantaire shifted in his chair, and oh yeah, so much for  feeling too bad to get _pretty violently_ aroused.

            Enjolras noticed the motion. He glanced down and Grantaire felt his cheeks heat up, but the blonde only blinked, and the artist noticed he wasn’t alone in this certain affliction.

            Enjolras suddenly laughed, leaning his forehead into Grantaire’s.

            “What is it?”

            He shook his head. “The other guys are never going to let us live this down. You know they’ll know. They always do.”

            Grantaire nodded. “I guess everyone saw this coming but us? Which, I still don’t understand by the way. You’re kind of way out of my – Oh my God.”

            “What?” Enjolras moved away far enough to be able to look up at Grantaire, who’s jaw had dropped. He suddenly laughed.

            “We’re idiots.”

            “What? Why?”

            Grantaire took his hand, stroking the knuckles absently. “Courfeyrac. His ‘new couple.’” He looked meaningfully at Enjolras until his face opened up in realization.

            “Oh, God.” He flushed brightly. “He is _never_ going to get over this... He probably thinks we owe him. But really, what did he even do?”

            Grantaire shrugged. “He’ll find a way. The only weird thing he’s done the past few days is bring that freaky chick into work.”

            “She was… interesting,” Enjolras said, carefully. Then his expression darkened. “No.” He lifted a hand to his hair, dragging it through the curls. “Oh, I am going to _kill_ him.”

            “What? You think it was some sort of… jealousy ploy?”

            “It was _something_.”

            Grantaire laughed again, bright and loud. Enjolras huffed at the little thrill it sent through his stomach. “You know what, I don’t care if he thinks it’s his fault – maybe it is. He did help it along. So…” He lifted his water glass, tilting it Enjolras’ way. “To Courf.”

            Enjolras only rolled his eyes, grabbing the glass and setting it back again on the table. “To _us._ ”

            “Cheesy.”

            “Shut up.” Enjolras deigned it necessary to assist Grantaire in filling this request, pressing back into him in a deeper kiss than before.

            Slowly, he got himself off of the floor, pushing Grantaire back into a sprawl on his armchair as he crawled over him. He hitched a leg over Grantaire’s thigh, settling into a straddle over his hips. The dark-haired man was stuck between staring at him and kissing him hungrily, hands wandering over tight, lean muscles beneath Enjolras’ red suit jacket and thin button up.

            Enjolras slid forward and reached for the hem of Grantaire’s paint-splattered tee, tugging it up until it was bunched up at his underarms. His hands slipped across the white expanse of Grantaire’s thin chest, trailing idly over his pecs and then snapping up to remove his shirt before returning to his chest to rub at his nipples.

            Grantaire gasped, nipping at Enjolras’ bottom lip and scrabbling for the top of his jacket so he could slide it off and onto the floor. It piled in on itself and not a single thought about creases even crossed Enjolras’ mind. He was more worried about helping Grantaire pull his buttons open.

            He let Grantaire slip the shirt off his shoulders and toss it over the back of the chair.

            Enjolras pressed himself impossibly closer, guiding his hands across every one of Grantaire’s ribs and muscles, committing the feel to memory even while hoping he didn’t have to because they would be doing this frequently from now on.

            He ground down onto Grantaire, causing them both to moan, and suddenly there were too many layers between them. He reached for Grantaire’s zipper but paused just above it.

            “Is this okay?” He whispered, all at once tentative. That hesitation flew out the window when Grantaire grabbed his hand and physically guided it to his button.

             “ _God_ , yes, Enjolras; this would’ve been okay eighteen _months_ ago.”          

            Enjolras frowned even as he worked at Grantaire’s fastenings. “That long?”

            “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. I mean, have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re perfect.” He paused to kiss along Enjolras’ clavicle, hand pulling at his zipper. “And then when I heard you talk… I’ve been – I’ve been waiting for this.”

            He got Enjolras’ pants undone first, through experience or luck neither would say. Enjolras lifted onto his knees so Grantaire could tug the material down and then did the rest himself, kicking the pants somewhere else and pulling hard on Grantaire’s.

            They came off easily for looking so tight, and Enjolras grinned as he dropped them onto the floor. He regained his place straddling Grantaire and shuddered when the artist’s nimble fingers dragged lightly down his torso. They ran teasingly along the waistband of his briefs before slipping beneath the elastic and pulling.

            Grantaire was oddly gentle in removing Enjolras’ last garment, taking his time and watching with nothing short of reverence as every last inch of his partner was exposed. He sat back a moment after dropping the briefs to the carpet, staring over Enjolras in a state of awe.

            He really did look like marble, all unblemished pale skin and thin runner’s muscle. His golden hair was catching fire in the sunset coming through the blinds, and his eyes were sparks of brilliant lightning that ran through Grantaire, igniting a budding fire he'd forgotten was there.

            Enjolras was watching him with a tender expression, and Grantaire was already coming undone.

            “I feel there’s a level of unfairness here,” Enjolras said after awhile, breaking the quiet.

            Grantaire met his eyes again and smirked. “You could easily fix that.”

            Enjolras took that as the challenge it was. Never one to back down from anything, he slid off Grantaire and dropped to his knees. He didn’t break eye contact as his hands slid up Grantaire’s thighs to grip his boxers, not yet removing them. He instead took hold of Grantaire’s length through the thin material and rubbed, lightly and slowly.

            The painter stiffened, releasing a stuttering breath. Enjolras cracked a cocky smile and increased the strength of his ministrations, twisting and pulling.

            “ _Fuck._ Enjolras…”

            He looked down with a soft, involuntary protest when Enjolras stopped his movement. The blonde had sat back, looking up at Grantaire with one lip pulled between his teeth.

            “What is it?”

            “Can we?” Enjolras was moving again, getting to his knees and tugging off Grantaire’s boxers.

            It took a minute for the question to register, and then Grantaire nearly choked. “Can we… you mean…?”

            Enjolras lifted his lips to Grantaire’s ear, sucking the lobe briefly before hissing, “I’m going to _ravish_ you.”

            The only response Grantaire could muster was a choked whimper. In light of the circumstances, he figured it was allowable.

            Apparently Enjolras brought his passion to the bedroom.

            “Do you have supplies?”

            “Yeah. B-bedroom. I’ll – I’ll get them. One sec.” Grantaire was honestly surprised his legs still worked when he got out of the chair and practically ran to his room. He was back within twenty seconds, bottle of lube in hand. He was pale. “I, um, I don’t – I’m out of condoms.”

            Enjolras shrugged. “I don’t carry anything. I’m checked regularly.”

            “Jesus Christ.” Grantaire strode to Enjolras, shoved the bottle into his hands and tangled both of his own in Enjolras’ wonderful hair, kissing him deeply.

            They fell back into the chair, Enjolras maneuvering them so he was on top. He clicked open the lube and prodded a finger into Grantaire’s side.

            “Flip.”

            Grantaire did, and Enjolras guided his hands to the top of the armchair. He spread lube over his fingers and wrapped his dry hand around one of Grantaire’s wrists, nosing at the hair at the base of his neck. He pressed a light, open-mouthed kiss to the same spot before pushing his first finger in.

            Grantaire shuddered beneath him, sweat dotting his brow. He turned his head and caught Enjolras’ lips in a kiss.

            He was tight, and Enjolras took his time with the first finger, but after a bit Grantaire loosened up beautifully and it was soon after that he had three fingers in and Grantaire was writhing, flushed and dirty and _fucking gorgeous_.

            “Enjolras…  please…”

            Nodding into his neck, Enjolras crooked his fingers a last time, causing Grantaire to arch back into him, breathless, before pulling out and coating himself in lube. Grantaire was up flush against him and he could feel the rapid beating of his heart. He set a firm hand over it on the cynic’s chest, brushing his lips against a smooth shoulder and slowly pushing into him.

            He slid in as far as possible and just stayed there, letting Grantaire adjust; letting their bodies meld to each other. He moved slightly for a moment, allowing only small movements until Grantaire was whimpering.

            And then he pulled out and thrust back in with enough strength to rock the chair.

            Grantaire cried out, throwing his head back onto Enjolras’ shoulder. The blonde didn’t let up on his rhythm after that, forcing Grantaire back onto the back of the chair and mouthing along his shoulders and neck. He drove him into the fabric relentlessly, taking the control he knew Grantaire didn’t want.

            It was when he felt his own resistance spiraling away that he finally reached down and took Grantaire in hand, pulling along his shaft with a pressure that was just this side of rough.

            The artist had lost the ability to form words, mumbling nonsense into Enjolras cheek. He stiffened moments later, turning to Enjolras’ neck to muffle his sob as he came. Enjolras continued stroking Grantaire until every drop of his release was spent and he’d started to shift uncomfortably.

            He was still thrusting, though the motions had become weaker as he’d guided Grantaire through his orgasm. But his partner had enough sense left to put a hand on his hip, stilling him completely.

            “What is it?”

            “Want…” Grantaire’s voice faltered and gave out. He took a breath and tried again. “Want to see you.”

            Enjolras hesitated only a moment before pulling out and turning Grantaire over. He blinked out the outright affection in the painter’s eyes that continued even while he hitched both legs around Enjolras’ hips.

            “You know, Grantaire,” he said lowly, adjusting quickly before picking up where he’d left off. “I like you… this way.”

            “What way?”

            Enjolras panted, nails digging into Grantaire’s back, dangerously close to the edge now. “Free of alcohol… open.”

            Grantaire chuckled, gripping Enjolras’ hips hard. “And here I though you just meant…  fucked.”

            He angled his head to nip under Enjolras’ jaw line and it was over. Enjolras throbbed into Grantaire, back arced and fingers bruising.

            His vision whited out for a bit and when it cleared he was slumped over Grantaire, breathing harshly onto his chest. Grantaire was playing with his hair and stroking along his arm.

            “My Apollo…” he muttered.

            Enjolras forced himself to move, pulling out of Grantaire and rolling to his side.

            There was an old smock laying nearby and the painter grabbed it, using it to clean them and the chair up as best as he could.

            They were quiet for a few minutes after that, curled together in the oversized armchair.

            “So, that was… mind blowing,” Grantaire spoke into the silence later, fingers dragging along Enjolras’ scalp.

            “I’d agree,” the blonde said, still boneless. “It was… better than I’ve had, before.”

            Grantaire shook his head. “And to think that such a god could have that from his submissive mortal slave.”

            “Grantaire, stop.” Enjolras took hold of the hand Grantaire still had in his hair and looked up at him, the smallest amount of righteous anger shining through his gaze. “I’m not a god. I’m your equal. This will never be a smooth relationship if you don’t accept that right now.”

            “I… so it’s a relationship?”

            Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Considering we’ve both been dancing around it for a year and a half and just had the best sex of our lives, I think that would be a safe assumption, yes.”

            “We’ve _both_ been dancing around it?”

            “Yes.”

            And he seemed to think that ended the conversation, dropping his head back onto Grantaire’s chest and slinging a leg over his lap.

            Grantaire was about to spout off about how _um, no, not finished, questions_ when there was a knock on the door. He nearly jumped off the chair and Enjolras had to grip his arms to keep from falling. They stared at the door and then each other, wide-eyed.

            The knock came again, a little louder.

            “Grantaire? It’s Courfeyrac.”

            They were suddenly a blur of motion, standing and scrambling for their clothes.

            “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

            “Yeah! Fine!” Grantaire finally found his voice, winded though it was as he hopped on one leg at a time, tugging his boxers on. “Just give me a minute!”

            “Sure! Hey, did Enjolras come by?”

            From his position behind the armchair picking up his shirt, Enjolras snorted (rather ungracefully, and Grantaire felt warm at having their leader already so loose around him).

            “Erm,” Grantaire struggled to keep his own laughter at bay. God, to think that an hour ago he’d been a miserable heap. “Yeah, he did.”

            The doorknob jiggled. “What are you doing in there?”

            Exasperated, Grantaire gave up and stomped to the door, ignoring Enjolras’ half-panicked cries and throwing it open while still clad only in boxers. He wasn’t even sure at this point how (un)dressed Enjolras was.

            “Could you give us a minute?!”

            And he slammed the door shut again.

            “Gran _taire_!”

            Turned out all he’d gotten to was his shirt and he’d had to dive behind the sofa to conceal himself.

            Oops.

            “He was going to know anyway! We already determined that! And now they won’t bother us until we’re ready.”

            “You are insufferable!”

            “Apparently not.”

            Grantaire threw him a shit-eating grin and finished dressing, then as apology came over to assist in getting Enjolras clothed too, because after all, “I helped you take them off; why shouldn’t I help you put them on?”

            It was hardly a minute before they were decent, and Grantaire pressed a quick kiss to Enjolras’ lips before opening the door again, this time much more gently.

            “Afternoon, gents.”

            “Evening, Grantaire.”

            “Is it?” He stepped away from the doorway, allowing the group entry. It wasn’t just Courfeyrac, it was everyone from the loft. Even Eponine had come. “What brings you here?”

            “Well.” Jehan appeared from behind Courf, bearing a huge plate wrapped in silver. “We know you’ve accomplished a big step this week, so we thought we’d come help you celebrate!”

            Grantaire took the plate and heaved it to the kitchen, smirking. “Oh, so you don’t all just want to hear about my sexual exploits, then?”

            From the chair where he’d been arranging a towel over its top, Enjolras groaned. Courfeyrac grinned widely.

            “Enjolras! You’re still here! Good. We can’t have Jehan’s famous peanut butter cookies without our leader. Did you two have a good talk?”

            Enjolras only glared. Eponine laughed.

            “Oh, you two. It’s about fucking time.”   

            “Eponine!” Grantaire mock scolded, coming around from behind her and swatting at her arm. “Watch your words. Our fearless leader is delicate, you know.”

            Eponine returned the playful hit with a much harder punch to the shoulder. “Oh, shut up. We’ve all been watching you two make starry eyes at each other for a year and a half. We have gloating rights.”

            Enjolras finally rose from his place at the chair and stepped primly into the kitchen, sidling up to Courfeyrac.

            “I would like to inform you that this turn of events was due in no way to any attempts by you to… match-make.”

            Courf turned to him, wide-eyed. “What? I’d take no credit for the course of true love!”

            As hoped, a pink tint rose to Enjolras’ cheeks. “That’s a little hasty, don’t you think?”

            “A year and a half isn’t hasty. Now!” Courfeyrac turned away from Enjolras and towards Grantaire. “We came here for a reason! My friend.” He dropped a hand onto the artist’s shoulder. “You’ve accomplished a great deal on your own, but now we are here to help. So! There were some obvious drink choices we could not bring, but I believe we’ve still managed to bring along quite the spread. Let us join in the traditions of our hollow-headed and round-bellied brethren and feast in celebration!”

            With many a good-natured laugh, their “celebration” took off and lasted well into the night. No one noticed the blackening of the sky, immersed as they were in their long and rather dangerously violent game of Spoons.

            It was Enjolras who noticed Grantaire’s reddened eyes and trembling hands even as he spoke merrily to Jehan. From across the room Combeferre’s gaze caught his and he nodded towards their still-unwell friend. The other man understood immediately and had the group clearing out in minutes without drawing a shred of attention to Grantaire, chiefly by reminding them that they all had an engagement party to attend tomorrow.

            They all gave Grantaire final congratulations/encouragements before making their way outside. Enjolras was standing by the door bidding all farewell and Eponine stopped before stepping through it, pinning him with a  look bordering on hostile.

            “Do you really mean this? I know what I said earlier and I know what I’ve seen, but I have to hear it from you.”

            “Sorry; I’m not sure what you mean.”

            She stepped into his space, tense. “Are you sincere about this? Do you really have feelings for Grantaire or is this some kind of… short term support?”

            “Supp – Of course not! You think that I’d-“

            Eponine held up a hand. “Hey. No one knows what you’ll do. I just – I need to know you’re serious about this because Grantaire – he loves you. He really does, and he’s not going to let you know how much. But I know. And I know what it is to have your heart broken. Grantaire is good, Enjolras. He is in this with all he has. So what about you?”

            Head spinning with the implications of all she’d just spilled on him, Enjolras took a moment to form a response.

            “Look. Eponine. I know – I know what’s at stake here. And I am very glad you’re Grantaire’s friend and you’re worried about him… but you have no reason to be. I’m not naïve – I know this won’t be the easiest relationship. But we both care enough to make it work, and I think that says a lot. Grantaire is… he’s very important to me. God knows why, but I _like_ him, and who knows what that may turn into down the road.”

            Eponine was quiet for a moment, staring intently into his eyes. And then she stepped back with a brief nod.

            “Okay. Good. Just know that if you ever hurt him, I will rip your kidneys out through your dick.”

            Enjolras coughed. “Fair enough.”

            “Well thanks for the confirmation. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Eponine.”

            “Yep.”

            “I – I’m sorry.” He shifted but held her gaze, voice low but not pitying. “About M-“

            “Don’t be,” she interrupted. “I deserve better.”

            He could only agree with that. A last smile tinged with bitterness and she was gone.

            Grantaire was at his side a moment later, smirking. “Let me guess. She threatened bodily harm if you were ever to break my poor, fragile heart.”

            “Pretty creatively.”

            Grantaire just laughed. They stood in the quiet for a moment. Then, “we’re alone again.”

            Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t said suggestively. And taking a look at his opposite, Enjolras could see why. Even stronger than before, a shiver had overtaken Grantaire’s limbs, and his skin was pasty white.

            “Come on. You need rest.” His fingers found tousled dark curls and stroked before falling to a shoulder.

            Neither complaint nor agreement was uttered as Enjolras led Grantaire to bed. He stood by while Grantaire stripped down to his boxers and sat on top of the covers to look expectantly at him. Enjolras cleared his throat.

            “Should I stay?”

            The look of patience transform into one of astonishment. “Will you?”

            “I believe my question answer yours.”

            Grantaire huffed and Enjolras followed in the painter’s former motions, pulling everything off but his briefs and slipping into the bed. Grantaire had flung the covers halfway down the mattress and now tugged them back up, cocooning them both in soft warmth.

            For a minute it was awkward. Enjolras lay still where he was, limbs held tightly to him. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in a long time and this was all moving so weirdly he had no idea what was appropriate or what Grantaire even liked and besides, he was sick and might not even want to be touched and Enjolras was starting to think maybe he should have gone when a slim arm wrapped itself around his waist and a bushy head nudged into his chest.

            Grantaire’s nose brushed his clavicle as he hesitantly scooted closer. “Is this okay?”

            Enjolras realized he hadn’t moved and was still holding himself rather stiffly. He released a breath and relaxed, shifting slightly before slipping his arm over Grantaire’s shoulders.

            His action was his response and he could  feel Grantaire smiling against his chest as they drifted off to sleep

           

* * *

 

 

            Enjolras’ internal clock was impeccable even when he didn’t want it to be, so the next morning he was waking up at 7:30. Grantaire was even closer than he’d been the night before, pressed against him head to foot, face turned into his chest and arm hooked around his ribs.

            Not wanting to wake him, Enjolras was still for awhile, absently toying with Grantaire’s dark curls. But he could only be still for so long, and as the clock ticked closer to eight, he carefully disentangled himself from the other man, pulled on his pants, and made his way quietly to the kitchen.

            Grantaire’s refrigerator was a lot more well-stocked than Enjolras anticipated, full of fresh fruits and produce despite its owner being sick for a week.

            A mite baffled at seeing some things he couldn’t even name, Enjolras shut the fridge and turned to the coffeemaker. As he switched it on, a muffled yawn came from the hallway, and a moment later Grantaire emerged, still only in his boxers, ruffled and bleary-eyed.

            “Man, it’s Saturday. Why are we up?”

            “This is later than I’m used to. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “Well, I wouldn’t want you to get bored.” He trudged to the fridge and pulled it open, bending inside and beginning to pile things into his arms.

            Pouring himself a mug of coffee, Enjolras leaned against the counter and watched with quirked lips.

            “What are you doing?”

            “What does it look like? Making breakfast.” He set his load on the counter and opened a drawer, withdrawing a knife and putting it to a strawberry.

            “You can cook?”

            “I can do a lot of things.” Grantaire accompanied the statement with a wink and Enjolras felt a spark of excitement at the glimpse of his normal demeanor. “Now. Those golden locks are looking a bit wilted. So, O Mighty Apollo, why don’t you go shower? When you come out this gracious mortal will have a fitting feast prepared in your honor.”

            Enjolras would have reprimanded the idolatry, but it was clearly in jest, and not said in a self-deprecating manner, so he let it slide.

            “I look forward to it.”

            He deliberately allowed himself extra time under the hot spray of Grantaire’s surprisingly nice, spacious shower. His muscles, pleasantly sore from the night before, gradually loosened. He used Grantaire’s green apple shampoo, which, Enjolras noted with a smirk, was organic and fair trade. He stepped out almost thirty minutes to the second after getting in, thrice as long as he was used to, and God, he hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages.

            Grantaire was singing in the kitchen, some loud, coarse song about a landlord. He was unaccompanied and remarkably on-key, and Enjolras found himself standing in the hallway to listen, unwilling to interrupt this new discovery.

            But Grantaire must have noticed that the shower was no longer running. He stopped singing and Enjolras heard shuffling and a bang before the artist called out, “Enjolras? You finished?”

            He stepped out from the hallway, not bothering to answer as Grantaire caught sight of him.

            “Apollo! Your timing is impeccable.”

            Enjolras came into the kitchen and stood at the table, choosing not to mention what he’d heard at this particular point in time, storing the pleasant fact away. He looked cautiously down at the spread that had been laid out.

            Two plates were across from each other, each garnished with various fruits cut into outlandish designs, a striking reminder that Grantaire was still an artist no matter what he was doing. Nestled beside the fruit were thinly-spiraled and seasoned roasted potatoes. There was a clean spot left for whatever Grantaire was finishing on the stove.

            “This looks great,” Enjolras said truthfully, sitting in the nearest place.

            Grantaire turned around, brandishing his frying pan. “And you haven’t even seen the piece de resistance.”

            He marched over and tilted the pan, using a bright pink spatula to maneuver something onto Enjolras’ plate. (Now that he was paying attention, Enjolras realized that most of Grantaire’s cooking tools were different neon colors).

            It took a moment to figure out what the carefully rolled doughy thing in front of him was, but Enjolras soon distinguished it to be an oversized crepe, stuffed with a thick chocolate substance and drizzled with honey.

            “And before you say anything,” Grantaire began, dropping his own crepe on his plate with only a bit less flourish and depositing the pan in the sink, “I  fully recognize your delicate dietary sensibilities and swear to the wind itself not a crumb of your feast has come near an animal or it’s juices.”

            It was no secret that Enjolras was a vegetarian in that he would freely talk about it if asked, but it was not something he broadcast. He could generally find something to eat out or at a friend’s house, or wait to go home, as he didn’t enjoy creating extra work for people outside of their organization.

            Yet Grantaire, resident slacker and (former) drunkard, had noticed and gone out of his way to make an entire meal suited to his needs.

            A fucking amazing meal, as it turned out.            

            The man could _cook._

            The thing about Grantaire is that he has passion. And the thing about people with that much passion is that they feel more acutely than those without it. That’s why they make such accomplished writers, dramatists, and in Grantaire’s case, artists. But when something came along that took his passion and broke it, he dulled the pain with alcohol and cynicism.

            But once he had a reason to start believing again; once he had the smallest spark of passion given from a clueless outside source, it reminded him of what he’d lost.

            The thing about Grantaire is that he has passion. And he brings it to everything he does.

            Even cooking.

            Enjolras was starting to realize what this new Grantaire could mean. None of them had known Grantaire before he’d had a bottle in his hand by 10 every day. And they’d spoken true – that bottle did not define him, but it did change him, and now that it was gone, they were going to see just how good the cynic could be. 


End file.
